The Shivering Sands

2

The train had stopped at Dover Priory and quite a number of people had alighted. There was a halt of five minutes here while the mail was put on and as the last of those who had left the train passed through the barrier I was aware of a woman hurrying along the platform, a young girl of about twelve or thirteen beside her. She saw me for my head was out of the window as she passed; then, halting, she turned and came back, opened the door, and the two came into the carriage.

She glanced at me covertly, and so did the girl, as they seated themselves opposite me. The woman sighed and said: “Oh, dear, shopping always makes me so tired.”

The girl said nothing but I knew they were both studying me with curiosity. Why? I wondered. Did I look so odd? Then it occurred to me that the train served smaller stations after Dover Priory and it might well be that the people who traveled on this train after that were local people who were known to each other. In which case I would be picked out immediately as a stranger.

The woman put a few small packages on the seat beside her and when one of these fell to the floor right at my feet and I retrieved it, the opening for conversation was at hand.

“So tiring these trains,” said the woman. “And one gets so dirty. Are you going as far as Ramsgate?”

“No, I’m getting off at Lovat Mill.”

“Oh really. So are we. Thank Heaven it’s not far now…another twenty minutes and we’ll be there…providing we’re on time. How strange that you should be going there. But of course we’ve had a lot of activity lately. These people you know who found the Roman remains.”

“Oh yes?” I said noncommittally.

“You’re not connected with them, I suppose?”

“Oh no. I’m going to a house called Lovat Stacy.”

“Dear me. Then you must be the young lady who is going to teach the girls music.”

“Yes.”

She was delighted. “Well, when I saw you, it did occur to me. There are so few strangers you see and we had heard that you were coming today.”

“You belong to the household?”

“No…no. We’re at Lovat Mill…just outside, of course. The vicarage. My husband is the vicar. We’re friends of the Stacys. In fact the girls come over to my husband for lessons. We’re only a mile or so from the House. Sylvia takes lessons with them, don’t you, Sylvia?”

Sylvia said “Yes, Mamma,” in a very quiet voice. And I thought it not unlikely that Mamma ruled the household—including the vicar.

Sylvia seemed meek enough but there was something about the line of her jaw and the set of her lips that belied her meekness, and I imagined her humility might evaporate with the departure of Mamma.

“I daresay the vicar will ask you if you will take on Sylvia at the same time as the Stacy girls.”

“Is Sylvia interested in music?” I was smiling at Sylvia who looked at her mother.

“She is going to be,” said that lady firmly.

Sylvia smiled rather faintly and threw back the plait which hung over her right shoulder. I noticed the rather spatulate fingers which did not look to me like those of a pianist. I could already hear Sylvia’s painful performance at the piano.

“I am so pleased that you are not one of those archaeologist people. I was very much against letting them invade Lovat Stacy.”

“You don’t approve of this sort of discovery?”

“Discovery!” she retorted. “Of what use are their discoveries? If we had been meant to know these things were there, they would not have been covered up, would they?”

This amazing logic was all against my upbringing, but this forceful woman was clearly expecting a reply, and as I did not want to antagonize her because I guessed she could probably tell me a good deal about Lovat Stacy, I smiled noncommittally, murmuring an inner apology to my parents and Roma.

“They came down here…disturbing everything. Goodness gracious me, one could not move without coming across them. Pails, spades…digging up the earth, completely ruining several acres of the park…And to what purpose? To uncover these Roman remains! ‘There are plenty of them all over the country,’ I said to the vicar. ‘We don’t want them here.’ One of these people came to a strange end…or perhaps it wasn’t an end. Who’s to say. She disappeared.”

I felt a prickling down my spine. I felt that I might betray my relationship with the one who had disappeared; and that was something which I was determined not to do. I said quickly: “Disappeared?”

“Oh yes. It was all very strange. She was there in the morning…and no one saw her after that. She disappeared during the day.”

“Where did she go?”

“That’s what a lot of people would like to know. Her name was…what was her name, Sylvia?”

Sylvia’s spatulate fingers with the bitten nails clenched themselves, betraying her tension, and for a moment I thought she was disturbed because she knew something about Roma’s disappearance; then I realized that she was in awe of her mother, particularly when she asked a question to which she might not be able to find the answer.

But she had this one. “It was Miss Brandon…Miss Roma Brandon.”

The woman nodded. “That was it. One of these unwomanly women…” She shivered. “Digging! Climbing about! Most unnatural, I call it. It was very likely a punishment for meddling. Some people say it was due to that. There’s quite a superstition about it. This…whatever it was that happened to her…took place because she had meddled. A sort of curse. I think it ought to be a lesson to these people.”

“But they’ve all left now?” I asked.

“Oh yes, yes. They were about to leave when this happened. Of course, when the fuss started it delayed them. It’s my belief she was taking a bathe and was caught by the currents. A most immodest habit, bathing. It’s the easiest thing to get carried out to sea. A sort of judgment. People should be more careful. But the local people will tell you that it was some sort of revenge. One of these Roman gods or someone who didn’t like his house being disturbed saying: Take that for meddling. The vicar and I try to tell them this is nonsense but at the same time it does seem a rough sort of justice.”

“Did you ever meet this…woman who disappeared?”

“Meet her. Oh no. We didn’t meet those people, although they were rather friendly with some of them up at the House. Then Sir William is a little odd. Mind you, they are a very great family and of course we are friends. People of our sort do tend to stand together in a small community; and because of the girls we are constantly seeing one another. By the way, I don’t think I asked you your name.”

“It is Caroline Verlaine. Mrs. Verlaine.”

I watched her anxiously, wondering whether she would connect me with Roma. Although Essie had assured me that Sir William did not know I was Roma’s sister, there had been a great deal of publicity at the time of her disappearance. Roma was after all Pietro’s sister-in-law; he was famous; and this might have been mentioned. I felt ridiculously dismayed. But I need not have worried. It was clear that my name meant nothing to the vicar’s lady.

“Yes, I heard you were a widow,” she said. “Frankly I had expected someone much older.”

“I have been a widow for a year now.”

“Ah, sad, sad.” She allowed a little pause as an expression of her compassion. “I am Mrs. Rendall…and this is of course Miss Rendall.”

I bowed my head in acknowledgment of the introduction.

“I heard that you hold many diplomas and such like.”

“I have some diplomas.”

“That must be very nice.”

I lowered my head to hide my smile.

“You will find Allegra a handful, I don’t doubt. The vicar says her mind never stays on one subject for more than a few seconds at a time. A mistake to educate her. A servant’s child even though…But it’s disgraceful. Such a complicated household…and none of them related. It’s so odd of Sir William to allow that little Alice Lincroft to share. But she’s such a quiet girl. One can’t really take exception. She is treated like the others…Sylvia is allowed to be their companion.” She shrugged her shoulders. “It’s very difficult, but since Sir William accepts them what can we do?”

Sylvia seemed alert as though she were listening intently. Poor Sylvia! She would be one of those children who spoke only when spoken to. Again I felt grateful to my own parents.

“And who is Alice Lincroft exactly?”

“The housekeeper’s daughter, if you please. Mind you Mrs. Lincroft is a very superior housekeeper. And she was with the family before her marriage. She was companion to Lady Stacy, then she left and came back after she was widowed…came back with Alice. The child was only about two years old then…so she has lived most of her life at Lovat Stacy. It would be intolerable of course if she were not such a quiet child. But she gives no trouble—unlike Allegra. But that was a flagrant mistake. There’ll be trouble with that girl one day. I have often said so to the vicar and he agrees with me.”

“And Lady Stacy?”

“She died quite a long time ago…before Mrs. Lincroft came back as housekeeper.”

“And there is another young lady whom I am to teach.”

Mrs. Rendall smirked. “Edith Cowan…or rather Edith Stacy now. I must say it is all very odd. A married woman…poor thing.”

“Because she is married?” I prompted.

“Married!” snorted Mrs. Rendall. “I must say that was a very odd arrangement. I said so to the vicar and I shall continue to say so. Of course it is clear to me why Sir William arranged it.”

“Sir William?” I put in. “Didn’t the young couple have anything to say about it?”

“My dear young lady, when you have been at Lovat Stacy for a day you will learn that there is only one person who has any say in affairs there and that is Sir William. Sir William took Edith in and made her his ward and then he decided to bring Napier back and marry them off.” She lowered her voice. “Of course,” she excused her indiscretion, “you will soon be one of the household so you will discover these things sooner or later. It was only the Cowan money which could have induced Sir William to have Napier back.”

“Oh?” I was prompting her to go on but I think she realized she had been a little too communicative and she sat back in her seat, her lips pursed, her hands clasped in her lap, looking like an avenging goddess.

The train rocked in silence while I was trying to think of an opening gambit which would lure the loquacious woman to further indiscretions when Sylvia said timidly: “We are almost there, Mamma.”

“So we are,” cried Mrs. Rendall, getting to her feet and scattering parcels. “Oh dear, I wonder if this wool is the right ply for the vicar’s socks.”

“I am sure it is, Mamma. You chose it.”

I studied the girl sharply. Was that a little irony? However Mamma did not appear to have noticed. “Here,” she said to the girl, “take this.”

I too had risen and took down my bags from the rack. I was aware of Mrs. Rendall’s eyes on them, assessing them as she had assessed me.

“I daresay you’ll be met,” she said and gave Sylvia a little push after which she followed her daughter onto the platform and turning to me continued: “Ah yes, there is Mrs. Lincroft.” She called in her somewhat shrill and penetrating voice: “Mrs. Lincroft. Here is the young person you are looking for.”

I had alighted and stood with my two large bags beside me. The vicar’s wife gave me a brief nod and another to the approaching woman and went off with Sylvia at her heels.

“You are Mrs. Verlaine?” She was a tall, slender woman in her mid-thirties, I guessed. There was an air of faded beauty about her and I was immediately reminded of the flowers I used to press among the pages of books. A large straw hat was tied under her chin with light colored veiling; her large eyes were a faded blue; her face a little gaunt for she was very slender. She was dressed in gray but her blouse was a cornflower blue, which I suspected gave a deeper blue to her eyes. There was certainly nothing formidable about her.

I told her who I was.

“I’m Amy Lincroft,” she replied, “housekeeper at Lovat Stacy. I have the trap outside. Your bags can be sent up to the house.”

She signed to a porter and gave him instructions and in a few minutes she was taking me through the barrier to the station yard.

“I see you have already made the acquaintance of the vicar’s wife.”

“Yes, oddly enough she guessed who I was.”

Mrs. Lincroft smiled. “It could have been by design. She knew you’d be on that train and wanted to meet you before the rest of us did.”

“I feel flattered to have inspired her to do so.”

We had reached the trap. I got in and she took the reins.

“We’re a good two miles from the station,” she told me, “nearer three.” I noticed her delicate wrists and long thin fingers. “I hope you like the country, Mrs. Verlaine.”

I told her I had been used to living in towns so that it was something I should have to discover.

“Big towns?” she asked.

“I was brought up in London. I lived abroad with my husband and when he died I came back to London.”

She was silent and as she too was a widow I wondered whether she was thinking of her husband. I tried to imagine what he would have been like and whether she had been happy. I thought not.

How different from the vicar’s wife who rarely stopped talking and had told me so much in such a short time. Mrs. Lincroft would be, I imagined, almost secretive.

She talked vaguely of London where she once lived briefly; and then she mentioned the east winds which were a feature of this coast. “We get the full force of them. I hope you don’t feel the cold, Mrs. Verlaine? But then the spring is almost here and the spring is quite lovely. So is the summer.”

I asked her about my pupils and she confirmed that I should be teaching her own daughter Alice, as well as Allegra, and Edith: Mrs. Stacy.

“You will find Mrs. Stacy and Alice good pupils. Allegra is not really bad—just high spirited and perhaps a little prone to get into mischief. I think you will like them all.”

“I am looking forward to meeting them.”

“That you will do very shortly for they are all eager to meet you.”

The wind was keen and I fancied I could smell the sea, and now we had come to the Roman remains.

Mrs. Lincroft said: “This was discovered quite recently. We had archaeologists down here and Sir William gave them leave to excavate. He wished afterwards that he hadn’t. It has brought crowds here to see the remains and there was an unfortunate affair. You may have heard of it. There was a great fuss at the time. One of the archaeologists disappeared and…I fancy…hasn’t been heard of since.”

“Mrs. Rendall mentioned it.”

“There was talk of nothing else at the time. We had people prying…It was very upsetting. I saw the young woman once. She came to see Sir William.”

“So she disappeared,” I said. “Do you have any ideas as to how it happened?”

She shook her head.

“Such a forthright young woman. One can’t imagine how she could have done such a thing.”

“What…thing?”

“Just walked off and told no one where she was going. That must have been what happened.”

“But she wouldn’t have done such a thing, surely. She would have told her sister.”

“Oh…did she have a sister?”

I flushed slightly. How foolish I was. If I were not careful I should betray myself.

“Or her brother or parents,” I continued.

“Yes,” conceded Mrs. Lincroft. “Surely she would have done that. It’s very mysterious.”

I fancied I had shown too much interest, so I quickly changed the subject.

“I can smell the sea.”

“Oh yes, you’ll see it in a moment. And you’ll see the house too.”

I caught my breath in wonder, for there it was, just as I had been remembering it—that impressive gate house with its moldings, its mullions and arched transoms.

“It’s magnificent,” I said.

She looked pleased. “The gardens are quite lovely. I do a little gardening myself. I find it so…soothing.”

I was scarcely listening. A great excitement had come to me. This house thrilled, yet repelled me. The machicolated towers with their crenellations seemed to give a warning to those who would carelessly enter through the gate below. I imagined arrows and boiling pitch being thrown from the heights of those towers on to the enemies of the great house.

Mrs. Lincroft was aware of the effect the house was having on me and she smiled. “I suppose we who live here are inclined to take it all for granted,” she said.

“I was wondering how it felt to live in such a house.”

“You will soon find out.”

We were on the gravel path, bounded on both sides by the moss-covered wall, which led directly to the gate house. It was an impressive moment as we passed under the arch and I saw the door of the gatekeeper’s lodge with the peephole through which visitors to the mansion must have been scrutinized. I wondered whether anyone was watching there now.

Mrs. Lincroft brought the trap to a standstill in a cobbled courtyard. “There are two courtyards,” she told me, “the lower and the upper.” She waved a hand at the four high walls which enclosed it. “These are mostly the servants’ quarters,” she went on. She nodded toward an archway through which I caught a glimpse of stone steps going up. “The nurseries are over that gateway; and in the upper courtyard are the family’s rooms.”

“It’s vast,” I said.

She laughed. “You will discover how vast. The stables are here. So if you will alight I will call one of the grooms and then take you into the house and introduce you. Your bags will be here shortly…by the time I have given you tea, I imagine. I’ll take you to the schoolroom and there you can meet the girls.”

She drove the trap into the stables, leaving me standing there in the courtyard. There was a hushed silence and now that I was alone I felt I had stepped right back into the past. I calculated the age of those walls which closed me in. Four hundred…five hundred? I looked up; two hideous gargoyles projected from the walls, seeming to scowl at me. The Gothic tracery on the leadwork of the water spouts was exquisitely delicate in odd contrast to those grotesque figures. The doors—four of them were of oak, studded with massive nails. I looked at the windows with their leaden panes and I wondered about the people who lived behind them.

As I stood there, though completely fascinated, I was again conscious of that feeling of revulsion. I could not understand it, but I felt I wanted to run away, to go back to London, to write to my music master in Paris and beg for another chance. Perhaps it was the evil expression on the faces of those stone images jutting out from the walls. Perhaps it was the silence; that overwhelming atmosphere of the past which made me fancy that I was being lured from this present century into an earlier age. I had a vivid picture of Roma coming through that gate into this courtyard, demanding to see Sir William, asking him if he thought his park and trees were more important than history. Poor Roma. If he had refused his permission, would she be alive today?

It seemed that the house was alive, that those grotesques were not merely stone figures. Was that a shadow at the window over the second gateway? The nurseries, Mrs. Lincroft had said. Perhaps. But what more natural than that my pupils should be interested enough in their new music teacher to take a preview of her, when they believed her to be unaware of them?

I had never been inside a house of such antiquity before, I reminded myself. It was the circumstances of my coming which made me feel as I did. “Roma,” I whispered to myself. “Where are you, Roma?”

I could imagine that the gargoyles behind my back were laughing at me. I felt as though something was telling me that I should not stay here, that if I did I should be hurt in some mysterious way. And with this feeling came the certainty that the riddle of Roma’s disappearance was hidden somewhere in this house.

This is absurdly whimsical, I admonished myself in a voice which was just like Roma’s. How she would have laughed at such an idea. The romantic, Pietro would have commented, forever in me, peeping out from behind the poise, the air of worldliness.

Mrs. Lincroft appeared and she looked so comforting that the illusion vanished.

In fact, I continued to tell myself, I had not come here so much to solve the mystery of Roma’s disappearance as to earn an adequate living, to make sure of a roof over my head. Once I admitted that this was an end of my grand ambitions and looked at this venture as a practical and most sensible move, the more reasonably I should view my situation.

Mrs. Lincroft led the way under the second gateway over which were the schoolroom windows. I paused to read the inscription.

“You can scarcely make it out,” she said. “It’s in medieval English. ‘Fear God and honor the King.’”

“A noble sentiment,” I remarked.

She smiled and said: “Be careful of the steps. They’re steep and worn in places.”

There were twelve of them leading to the upper courtyard; this was larger and bounded by tall gray walls. I noticed the similar windows with their leaded panes, the gargoyles and the intricate designs on the head of the water spouts.

“This way,” said Mrs. Lincroft and pushed open a heavy door.

We were in an enormous hall about sixty feet long with a vaulted ceiling and four window embrasures. Although the windows were large the panes were small and leaded which meant that there were dark shadows although it was only afternoon. At one end was a dais on which stood a grand piano, at the other a minstrels’ gallery. There was a staircase close to the gallery and two arched openings through which I caught sight of a dark passage. On the limewashed walls were weapons, and a suit of armor stood at the foot of the staircase.

“The hall is rarely used nowadays,” said Mrs. Lincroft. “Once balls were held there…and there were musical occasions. But since Lady Stacy’s death and since er…Well, since then, Sir William has done little entertaining. An occasional dinner party…but of course we shall be using the hall now there is a young mistress of the house. I daresay we shall have some musical entertainments too.”

“Shall I be expected to—?”

“I daresay.”

I tried to imagine myself seated at the grand piano on the dais. I could hear Pietro’s laugh. “A concert pianist at last. Through the back door, one might say…No, through the castle gates.”

As Mrs. Lincroft led the way to the staircase, I laid my hand on the carved banister and saw the dragons and the fierce-looking creatures engraved there.

“I’m sure,” I said, “that no animals ever looked quite like these.” Mrs. Lincroft again smiled her quiet smile, and I went on: “I wonder why they always wanted to frighten people away. People who want to frighten others are very often frightened themselves. That’s the answer. They must have been really afraid…hence these fierce-looking creatures.”

“Calculated, as they say, to strike terror into the hearts of the invaders.”

“They would do it most successfully, I’m sure. It’s the long shadows…just as much as those carvings, which are really too fantastic to be true, that give this feeling of…menace.”

“You are sensitive to atmosphere, Mrs. Verlaine. You will be hoping that there are no ghosts in the house. Are you superstitious?”

“That’s something we all deny until we are put to the test. Then most of us prove we are.”

“You mustn’t be here, you know. In a place like this where people have lived for centuries within the same walls stories circulate. A servant sees her own shadow and swears it is a ghost in gray. Easily done, Mrs. Verlaine, in a house like this.”

“I don’t think I am going to be afraid of my own shadow.”

“I know how I felt when I first came here. I remember arriving in this hall and standing here terrified.” She shivered at the recollection.

“And all turned out well, I suppose.”

“I found…a place in this house…in time.” She shook herself slightly as though shaking off past memories. “Now, I think first to the schoolroom. I will have tea sent up there. I am sure you’re ready for it.”

We had reached a gallery in which hung several portraits and I noticed some fine tapestries which I intended to examine later, for their subjects seemed most intriguing.

She opened a door and said: “Mrs. Verlaine is here.”

I followed her into a lofty room and there were the three girls. They made a charming picture, one of them on the window seat, another seated at a table and a third standing with her back to the fireplace on either side of which stood two great firedogs.

The one in the window seat came toward me and I recognized her at once, because I had seen her coming down the aisle on the arm of her bridegroom. She looked so shy—she was uncertain as yet, I guessed, of her new dignity as mistress of the house; and indeed it was incongruous to think of her as such. She looked like a child.

“How do you do, Mrs. Verlaine?” The words were spoken as though she had rehearsed them many times. She held out her hand and I took it. As it lay for those few seconds limply in mine I felt sorry for her and knew I wanted to protect her. “We are glad you have come,” she continued in that stilted way.

Her hair was certainly her crowning glory. It was the color of corn in August, and little tendrils escaped to nestle on her low white forehead and at the nape of her neck. It was the only vital thing about her.

I told her I was glad to be here, and was looking forward to my work.

“I am looking forward to working with you,” she said, and her smile was sweet. “Allegra! Alice!”

Allegra left the fireplace and came toward me. Her thick dark curly hair was tied back with a red ribbon; her eyes were black and bold, her skin inclined to be sallow.

“So you’ve come to teach us music, Mrs. Verlaine,” she said.

“I hope you’re eager to learn,” I replied, not without asperity for my association with pupils, as well as Mrs. Rendall’s warning, told me to expect trouble with this one.

“Should I be?” Oh yes, she was going to be difficult.

“If you want to learn to play the piano, yes.”

“I don’t think I want to learn anything…at least things which teachers teach.”

“Perhaps when you are older and wiser you will change your mind.” Oh dear, I thought, engaging in verbal battles so soon was a very bad sign.

I turned from her to look at the third girl, who had been sitting at the table.

“Come, Alice,” said Mrs. Lincroft.

Alice stood before me and made a demure curtsy. I guessed her to be of the same age as Allegra—about twelve or thirteen—although being smaller she looked younger. She radiated neatness and wore a white frilled apron over her gray gabardine dress; her long light brown hair was held back from her rather severe little face by a blue velvet band.

“Alice will be a good pupil,” said her mother tenderly.

“I’ll try to be,” replied Alice with a shy smile. “But Edith…er Mrs. Stacy…is very good.”

I smiled at Edith, who flushed a little and said: “I hope Mrs. Verlaine will think so.”

Mrs. Lincroft said to Edith: “I asked for tea to be brought up here. I wonder if you will wish to stay and…”

“Why yes,” said Edith. “I shall want to talk to Mrs. Verlaine.”

I gathered that everyone was a little embarrassed by the new status Edith had acquired in the household since her marriage.

When the tea arrived I saw it was of the kind we used to have in the schoolroom at home—big brown earthenware pot and the milk in a china toby jug. A cloth was put on the table and bread and butter and cakes laid out.

“Perhaps you will be able to tell Mrs. Verlaine how far you have progressed with your studies,” suggested Mrs. Lincroft.

“I’m eager to hear.”

“Miss Elgin recommended you, didn’t she?” said Allegra.

“That’s so.”

“So you used to be a pupil.”

“I did.”

She nodded laughing, as though the idea of my being a pupil was incongruous. I was beginning to understand that Allegra liked to take the stage. But it was Edith who interested me—not only because I was so curious about her life and because she, a young girl, was mistress of this big house, but because she was clearly something of a musician. I could sense it by the manner in which her personality changed when she talked of music. She glowed, and became almost confident.

While we talked a servant came to say that Sir William was asking for Mrs. Lincroft.

“Thank you, Jane,” she said. “Pray tell him that I will be with him in a few moments. Alice, as soon as tea is over, you can show Mrs. Verlaine her room.”

“Yes, Mamma,” said Alice.

As soon as Mrs. Lincroft had gone the atmosphere changed subtly. I wondered what this meant, for the housekeeper had given me the impression of being an extremely gentle woman; there was a certain firmness about her, but I did not think she was one who would impose her personality on a young girl—particularly one as high spirited as Allegra appeared to be.

Allegra said: “We expected someone older than you. You aren’t all that old to be a widow.”

Three pairs of eyes were studying me intently. I said: “Yes, I was widowed after a very few years of marriage.”

“Why did your husband die?” pursued Allegra.

“Perhaps Mrs. Verlaine would rather not speak of it,” suggested Edith quietly.

“What nonsense!” retorted Allegra. “Everyone likes talking about death.”

I raised my eyebrows. “It’s true,” went on the irrepressible Allegra. “Look at Cook. She’ll go into the gruesome details of her late lamented—her name for him—whenever you ask her…and you don’t even have to ask. She revels in them. So it’s nonsense to say people don’t like talking about death, because they do.”

“Perhaps Mrs. Verlaine is different from Cook,” put in Alice in a quiet little voice which was scarcely audible. Poor little Alice, I thought, as the housekeeper’s daughter she is not exactly accepted as one of them, although she is allowed to share their lessons.

I turned to her and said: “My husband died of a heart attack. It’s something that can happen at any time.”

Allegra looked toward her two companions as though she were expecting to see them collapse.

“Of course,” I went on, “there are sometimes signs that an attack is imminent. People work too hard, worry…”

Edith said timidly: “Perhaps we should change the subject. Do you like teaching, Mrs. Verlaine, and have you taught many people?”

“I like teaching when my pupils respond…not otherwise; and I have taught a number of people.”

“How does one respond?” asked Allegra.

“By loving the piano?” suggested Edith.

“That is exactly so,” I said. “If you love music, if you want to give the pleasure to others which music gives to you, you will play well and enjoy your playing.”

“Even if you have no talent?” asked Alice almost eagerly.

“If you have no talent to begin with, you can work hard and acquire skill at least. But I do believe that the gift of music is something you are born with. I propose that we start our lessons tomorrow. I shall take you all in turn and we will see who has this talent.”

“Why did you come here?” pursued Allegra. “What were you doing before?”

“Teaching.”

“What of your old pupils? Won’t they be missing you?”

“There were not many of them.”

“Well, there are only three of us. This is not a very lucky place for people.”

“What do you mean?”

Allegra looked conspiratorially at the others. “There were some people who came to dig up our park. They were…”

“Archaeologists,” supplied Alice.

“That’s right. People said it was wrong to disturb the dead. They’re gone and they’re in peace and they don’t want other people digging up their graves and their homes. They say they leave a curse that if someone disturbs them they will have their revenge. Do you believe that, Mrs. Verlaine?”

“No, it’s a superstition. If the Romans built beautiful houses I believe they would want us to know how clever they had been, how advanced.”

“Did you know,” said Alice quickly, “that they kept their houses warm by means of pipes full of hot water? The young lady who died told us. She was pleased if we asked questions about the remains.”

“Alice always tries to please everyone,” said Allegra. “It’s because she’s the housekeeper’s daughter and feels she has to.”

I raised my eyebrows at this rudeness and looked at Alice in a manner which I hoped conveyed to her that I meant to make no distinctions.

“So to please this…archaeologist, you pretended to be interested?” I suggested.

“But we were interested,” said Alice, “and Miss Brandon told us a great deal about the Romans who used to live here. But when she heard about the curse she was frightened and—then it overtook her.”

“Did she tell you she was frightened?”

“I think that’s what she meant. She said: ‘We are after all meddling with the dead. So it’s not surprising there is this curse.’”

“She meant that it was not surprising there was a rumor about the curse.”

“Perhaps she believed it,” suggested Allegra. “It’s like having faith. People in the Bible were cured because they had faith. So perhaps it works the other way and Miss Brandon disappeared because she had faith.”

“So you think that if she hadn’t believed in the curse she would not have disappeared?” I asked.

There was silence in the schoolroom. Then Alice said: “Perhaps I thought afterwards that she was frightened. It’s easy to imagine things like that when something’s happened.”

Alice was evidently a wise young girl in spite of her humility—or perhaps because of it. I could well imagine how Allegra treated her when they were alone. I expected that hers was a life of countless humiliations—the poor relation who is given a roof over her head and outwardly similar privileges in return for doing light but menial tasks and accepting slights from those who believed themselves to be her superiors. I warmed toward Alice and imagined she did toward me.

“Alice is full of imagination,” scoffed Allegra. “Parson Rendall says so every time she writes an essay.”

Alice blushed and I said: “That’s very creditable.” I smiled at the young girl. “I am really looking forward to teaching you the piano.”

The footman came to announce that my bags had arrived and were in the yellow room which had been made ready for me.

I thanked him and Alice said at once: “Would you like me to take you there now, Mrs. Verlaine?”

I admitted that would be pleasant.

She rose and the others watched her and I decided that showing people to their rooms was a task for the higher servants, the class to which Alice belonged.

She said politely: “Allow me to lead the way, Mrs. Verlaine”; and began to mount the staircase.

“This place has been your home for a long time,” I said conversationally.

“I have never really known another home. Mother came back here when I was about two.”

“It’s certainly impressive.”

Alice laid her hand on the banister and looked down at the carved figures there. “It’s a lovely old house, isn’t it, Mrs. Verlaine? I should never want to go away from it.”

“Perhaps you will change your mind when you get older. Perhaps you will marry someone and that will be more important to you than staying here.”

She turned to look down at me in a startled way. “I expect I shall stay here and be a sort of companion to Edith.”

She sighed and turning proceeded up the stairs. There was an air of resignation about her and I pictured her first as a young woman, then as a middle-aged one and an old one—not of the family and not belonging to the servants’ hall, called upon in moments of crisis in the family. Little Alice at everyone’s beck and call, of no account except when some unpleasant task had to be performed.

She turned suddenly and smiled at me. “It is after all what I want.” She lifted her shoulders. “I love this house. There are so many interesting things in it.”

“I’m sure there are.”

“Yes,” she said almost breathlessly. “There is a room where a King is supposed to have lodged. I think it was Charles I during the Civil War. I suppose he was afraid to go to Dover Castle, so he came here. It’s the bridal suite now. It’s supposed to be haunted, but Mr. Napier doesn’t care about that. Most people would. Edith does. Edith’s terrified…but then she’s often terrified. But Napier believes that it’s all for her own good to face up to what she’s frightened of. She has to learn to be brave.”

“Tell me about it,” I said, hoping to hear more of Napier and his bride, but she merely went on to describe the room.

“It’s one of the largest in the house. They would give the largest to the King, wouldn’t they? There’s a brick fireplace which the vicar says has a chambered arch and jambs. The vicar is very keen on anything that’s old…old houses, old furniture…old anything.”

We had walked along a gallery similar to the one below and here Alice paused to open a door.

“This is the room my mother selected for you. It’s called the yellow room because of the yellow curtains and the rugs. The counterpane is yellow too. Look.”

She threw open the door. I saw my bags standing on the parquet floor and was immediately aware of the yellow curtains at the big window and the rugs and the counterpane on the four-poster bed. The ceiling was high and a chandelier hung from it, but there were dark shadows in the room for like most windows in the house, this one had leaded panes which shut out a good deal of the light. It was very grand, I thought, for someone who had merely come to teach music; and I wondered what the room was like which was occupied by Napier—the one which had once sheltered a King.

“There’s a powder closet—only a little one. But it will be your dressing room. Would you like me to help you unpack?”

I thanked her and said that I could manage by myself.

“Your view is lovely,” she said. She went to the window. I crossed the room and stood beside her. I looked over the lawns to a copse of fir trees and beyond that the sea was breaking about the white cliffs.

“There!” She stood back watching me. “Do you like it, Mrs. Verlaine?”

“I think it is enchanting.”

“It is beautiful—all of it. But they do say hereabouts that this is an unlucky house.”

“Why? Because a young woman mysteriously disappeared when…?”

“You mean the woman at the excavations. She wasn’t really anything to do with the house.”

“But you knew her and she had been working on the estate close to this house.”

“I wasn’t thinking of her.”

“Then there is something else?”

Alice nodded. “When Sir William’s eldest son died everyone said it was…unlucky.”

“But there is Napier.”

“Napier was his brother. This was Beaumont. They called him Beau. It suited him, you see, because he was so beautiful. Then he died…and Napier was sent away and he stayed away until he came back to marry Edith. Sir William never got over it nor did Lady Stacy.”

“How did he die? Was it an accident?”

“It could have been an accident. But then it might not have been.” She put her fingers to her lips. “Mother says I am never to speak of it.”

I could not prompt her then, but she added: “I suppose that’s why they call it an unhappy house. It’s haunted they say…by Beau. But whether they mean he’s a real ghost who glides about at night or whether they just mean you can’t get away from the memory of him, I don’t know. But it’s a sort of haunting whichever way, isn’t it? But Mother would be angry if she knew I’d mentioned him. Please don’t tell her, Mrs. Verlaine, and forget it, will you?”

She looked so pathetic, pleading with me in this way, that I said I would not mention it and immediately dropped the subject.

Then she said: “It’s clear today. Not clear enough to see the coast of France, but you can see the Goodwin Sands if your eyes are good enough. Well, you can’t exactly see the sands themselves but you can see the wrecks sticking up.” She pointed and I followed the direction which she indicated.

“I can see something that looks like sticks.”

“That’s it…that’s all you can see. It’s the masts of boats which long ago were caught on the sands. You’ve heard about the sands, Mrs. Verlaine. Quicksands…shivering sands…Boats are caught in them and they can’t get off. They feel themselves held in a grip so fierce that nothing will release them…and slowly they begin to sink into the shivering sands.” She looked at me.

“Horrible!” I said.

“Yes, isn’t it? And the masts are always there to remind us. You can see them very easily on a clear day. There’s a lightship out there to warn shipping. You’ll see it flashing at night. But some of them still get caught on the shivering sands.”

I turned away from the window and Alice said: “You’ll want to unpack now. I expect you will be dining with Mother and me. I’ll ask Mother what the arrangements will be. Then I suppose Sir William will send for you. I’ll be back in an hour.”

Quietly she slipped out of the room. I started to unpack, my thoughts flitting from Mrs. Lincroft to her daughter, to Allegra who was very likely going to give me trouble, to pale Edith who was Napier’s bride and of the ghost of Beau who had had an accident and who was believed by some to haunt the place…in one way or another.

I listened to the water being tossed against the cliffs and in my mind’s eye I saw those masts protruding from the treacherous sands.

In fifteen minutes, having washed in the powder room and unpacked my belongings, I was ready for the summons; I walked about my room examining the details. The cloth which lined the walls was of yellow brocade and must have been there for years for it was a little faded in places; the arched alcove, the rugs on the parquet floor, the sconces in the wall in which stood candles. Then I went to the window and looked out across the gardens to the copse and the sea. I looked for the masts of those sunken ships and could not see them.

I had nearly three quarters of an hour to wait so I decided I would have a look at the gardens. I was sure to be back in my room within the hour.

I put on a coat and found my way down to the hall and out into the upper courtyard. Passing under an archway I descended a flight of stone steps and before me was a terrace leading to lawns bordered with flowers which I guessed would be glorious in the late spring and summer. Rock plants grew in the stone-clumps of white arabis and blue aubrietia. The effect was charming.

There were no trees except stubby yews which looked as though they had stood where they did for centuries; but the shrubs were numerous. At the moment the only blooms were the yellow forsythia flowers, the color of sunshine, I thought—but this was because it was early spring, and again I imagined the riot of color there would be later.

I made my way through the shrubs and came to a stone archway over which a green plant was creeping. I passed under the arch and was in a walled garden—a quadrangle—cobbled, with two wooden seats facing each other across a water lily pond. It was charming and I pictured myself coming here during the hot summer weather in between lessons. I imagined I should have some spare time for I was beginning to plan a curriculum for the girls and although I intended to have each one at the piano every day, it seemed I should still have time to spare. But there was that suggestion that I was to play for Sir William. What could that entail? All sorts of possibilities presented themselves. I saw myself in that hall, playing on the dais…to a large assembly.

I wandered out of the walled garden and made my way back across a terrace, past the powerful buttresses; and as I looked up at those gray walls at the corbelled oriels and more of those hideous gargoyles, I thought how easy it would be to lose my way.

Trying to find my way back to the courtyards, I came to the stables. As I was passing by the mounting block, which must have been used by the ladies of the house for centuries because the stone was very worn, Napier Stacy came out of the stables leading a horse. I felt embarrassed to be caught wandering about and would have liked to avoid him; but I was too late, he had seen me.

He stood still, looking at me in a puzzled manner, wondering, it seemed, who dared trespass on his domain. Tall, lean, legs apart, bellicose, arrogant. I immediately thought of fragile Edith married to such a man. Poor child, I thought. Poor, poor child. I disliked him. The heavy dark brows were frowning above those startlingly blue eyes. They had no right to be blue, I thought illogically, in such a dark face. His nose was long, slightly prominent; his mouth too thin, as though he were sneering at the world. Oh, certainly I disliked him.

“Good afternoon,” I said defiantly—it was a natural attitude with which to face such a man.

“I don’t think I have the pleasure…” He spoke the last word cynically to imply that he meant the opposite—or perhaps that was my imagination.

“I’m the music teacher. I’ve just arrived.”

“Music teacher?” He raised those black eyebrows. “Oh, I remember now. I’ve heard some talk of this. So…you have come to inspect the stables?”

I felt annoyed. “I had no fixed intention of doing so,” I said sharply. “I came here unintentionally.”

He rocked a little on his heels and his attitude had changed. I was not quite sure whether for the worse or the better.

I added: “I saw no harm in walking through the grounds.”

“Did anyone suggest there might be harm in such an innocent action?”

“I thought perhaps you…” I floundered. He was waiting expectantly, enjoying—yes, enjoying my discomfiture. I went on boldly: “I thought perhaps you objected.”

“I don’t remember saying so.”

“Well, since you don’t object I’ll continue with my walk.”

I moved away; as I did so I passed the back of the horse. In a second Napier Stacy was beside me; he had roughly caught my arm and dragged me violently to one side as the horse kicked out. His blue eyes blazed hotly; his face was tight with contempt. “Good God, don’t you know better than that?”

I looked at him indignantly; he was still gripping my arm and his face was so close to mine that I could see the clear whites of his eyes, the flash of his large white teeth.

“What are you…” I began.

But he silenced me curtly. “My good woman, don’t you know that you should never walk close behind a horse. You could have been kicked to death…or at least badly injured…in a second.”

“I…I had no idea…”

He released his grip on my arm and patted the horse’s head. His expression changed. How gentle he was! How much more attractive he found a horse than an inquisitive music teacher!

Then he turned to me again; “I shouldn’t come to the stables alone if I were you, Miss er…”

“Mrs.,” I said with dignity. “Mrs. Verlaine.” I waited to see the effect my married status would have on him; it was, however, perfectly clear that the fact was of no significance to him whatsoever.

“Well, don’t come to the stables if you’re going to be such a fool, for God’s sake. A horse hears a movement behind him, naturally he kicks out in self-preservation. Never do such a thing again.”

“I suppose,” I said coolly, “you are reminding me that I should thank you.”

“I’m reminding you to show a little common sense in future.”

“You are most kind. Thank you for preserving my life…however ungraciously.”

A slow smile spread across his features but I did not wait for more. I started to walk away, horrified that I was trembling.

I could still feel his grip on my arm and I guessed I should have bruises for days to come to remind me of him. It was most disturbing. How was I to have known his wretched horse was going to kick out. Common sense, he would say. Well there were some of us who were more interested in our fellow human beings than in horses. The expression on the man’s face when he had turned to the horse—and how it had changed for me! I didn’t like him. I kept thinking of Edith at the wedding, coming down the aisle on his arm. She was frightened of him. What sort of man was he to frighten a young girl? I could guess and I hoped I should not have to see very much of Mr. Napier Stacy. I would put him out of my mind. Pietro would have despised him on sight. That complete…what was it…virility, masculinity…would have irritated him. A Philistine, would have been Pietro’s comment—a creature with no music in his soul.

I could not banish him from my mind, however.

I found my way back to my room and there I sat on the window seat looking out, not seeing the gray-green water but the contempt in those startlingly blue eyes.

And then Mrs. Lincroft came to my room and told me that Sir William would see me.

As soon as I was presented to Sir William I saw the resemblance between him and Napier. The same blue penetrating eyes, the long nose somewhat hawklike, the thin lips and—something more subtle—that arrogant look of defiance against the world.

Mrs. Lincroft had explained to me on the way that Sir William was half-paralyzed due to a stroke he had suffered a year before. This meant that he could only move with great difficulty. I was beginning to fit things into some sort of shape and I realized that the stroke was probably another reason why Napier had been called home.

He sat in a leather wing chair, within his reach a cane whose handle was inlaid with what I believed to be lapis lazuli; and he wore a dressing gown of cloth with dark blue velvet collar and cuffs; he was obviously very tall and it seemed to me infinitely pathetic that such a man should be incapacitated, for he had clearly once been as strong and virile as his son. Heavy velour curtains were half drawn across the windows and he sat with his back to the light as though he were determined to avoid what little there was. The carpet was thick and it deadened the sound of my footsteps as I approached. The furniture—the great ormolu clock, the Buhl bureau, the tables and chairs, everything was heavy, and the effect was oppressive.

Mrs. Lincroft said in her quiet but authoritative voice: “Sir William, this is Mrs. Verlaine.”

“Ah, Mrs. Verlaine.” There was a slight slurring and hesitancy in the speech which I found moving. I suppose I was conscious—perhaps because of my recent encounter with his son—of the great change that illness had brought about in this man. “Pray be seated.”

Mrs. Lincroft put a chair immediately in front of Sir William, so close that I gathered his eyesight was failing too.

I sat down and he said: “You have good qualifications, Mrs. Verlaine. I am glad. I think Mrs. Stacy has some talent. I should like it to be developed. You have not yet had time to discover, I suppose…”

“No,” I answered. “But I have talked with the young ladies.”

He nodded. “When I realized who you were I was immediately interested.”

My heartbeats quickened. If he knew that I was Roma’s sister he might guess why I had come.

“I never had the pleasure of hearing your husband perform,” he went on, “but I have read of his great talent.”

Of course, he was referring to Pietro. How nervous I was! I should have known.

“He was a great musician,” I said, trying to hide the emotion I felt when speaking of him.

“You will find Mrs. Stacy something less.”

“There are very few people living who can be compared with him,” I said with dignity; and he inclined his head in a brief respect to Pietro.

“I shall require you to play for me from time to time,” he went on. “It will be part of your duties. And perhaps on occasions for our guests.”

“I see.”

“I should like to hear you play now.” Mrs. Lincroft was suddenly beside me.

“There’s a piano in the next room,” she said. “You will find the piece which Sir William wishes you to play there.”

Mrs. Lincroft drew back a heavy curtain and opened the door behind it as I followed her into the room. The first thing I noticed was the grand piano. It was open and a piece of music was set up on it. The room was furnished in the same colors as the one I had just left; and there was the same indication that the owner wished to shut out the light.

I went to the piano and glanced at the music. I knew every note by heart. It was Beethoven’s Für Elise, in my mind one of the most beautiful pieces ever written.

Mrs. Lincroft nodded to me and I sat down at the piano and played. I was deeply moved, for the piece brought back memories of the house in Paris and of Pietro. He had said of this piece: “Romantic…haunting…mysterious. You couldn’t go wrong with a piece like that. With that you can hypnotize yourself into thinking you’re a great pianist.”

So I played and I was soothed and I forgot the sad old man in the next room and the discourteous younger one whom I had met in the stables. Music has this effect on me. I am two people—the musician and the woman. The latter is practical, a little gauche in her defiance of the world because she has been hurt and doesn’t intend to be again, muzzling her emotions and her feelings, pretending they don’t exist because she is afraid of them.

But the musician is all emotion, all feeling; when I play I can imagine that I am carried away from the world, that I have a special sense, that I am in possession of some subtle understanding which is denied to ordinary people. And I felt as I played that this room which had been dark and sad for a long time was suddenly alive again; that I had brought back something for which it had long yearned. Fanciful yes. But music is not of this mundane world. Great musicians draw their inspiration from the divine influence…and although I am not great, I am at least a musician.

I finished playing and the room returned to normal, for the magic had disappeared. I felt I had never done better justice to Für Elise, and that had the master overcome his deafness and heard my rendering he would not have been displeased.

There was silence. I sat at the piano waiting. Then as nothing happened I rose and went through the door holding aside the curtain, which was not completely drawn over it. Sir William was lying back in his chair, his eyes closed. Mrs. Lincroft, who had been standing by him, came swiftly to my side.

“It was very good,” she whispered. “He was greatly touched by it. Can you find your way back to your room alone, do you think?”

I said I could and I went out wondering whether the music had so moved Sir William that it had made him ill. At least Mrs. Lincroft felt she must stay with him. What comfort she must be to him—far more than an ordinary housekeeper! No wonder he wanted to repay her by giving her daughter Alice every advantage of education and upbringing.

Thinking of Sir William, Mrs. Lincroft, and of course the encounter with Napier Stacy, I did not find my way back to my room as easily as I had imagined I would. The house was enormous; there were so many corridors and pairs of stairs which looked so much alike; therefore it was quite understandable that I should take the wrong turning.

I came to a door and wondering whether it would lead me back to that part of the house in which I had my room, I opened it. The first thing I noticed about this room was the bell rope and it occurred to me that I should ring this and ask a servant to conduct me to my own room.

As soon as I stepped into this room I was aware that there was something strange about it. It had what I can only call an air of studied naturalness, the impression being that its occupier had a moment before left it. A book was open on a table. I went over and saw that it was a stamp collection; a riding whip lay on a chair, and on the wall were pictures of soldiers in various uniforms. Over the fireplace hung a painting of a young man. I went to it and stood looking at it for it was a fascinating study. His hair was chestnut brown, his eyes vivid blue; the nose was long and slightly hawk-like and the mouth was curved into a smile. It was one of the most handsome faces I had ever seen. I knew of course who it was. It was the beautiful brother who had died and I had come into the room which had once been his. I was startled for I knew I had no right to be in this holy of holies; yet I found it difficult to take my attention from that face on the canvas up there. The picture was painted so that the eyes seemed to follow you no matter where you were; and as I stepped backwards keeping my gaze on the picture the blue eyes watched me, seeming sad one moment, smiling the next.

“Ha. Ha.” I heard a high-pitched titter which sent a shiver down my spine. “Are you looking for Beau?”

I turned round and for a moment I thought it was a little girl standing behind me. Then I saw that she was by no means young. She must have been in her seventies. But she was wearing a pale blue dress of cambric and about her waist was a blue satin sash. Her hair was white but in it she wore two little blue bows, one on either side of her head, the same color as the sash; the frilled skirt would have been more suited to Edith than to this woman.

“Yes,” she said almost coyly, “you are looking for Beau. I know you are…so don’t deny it.”

“I am the new music teacher,” I said.

“I know it. I know everything that goes on in this house. But that doesn’t prove, does it, that you weren’t looking for Beau?”

I studied her closely; she had a small heart-shaped face and in her youth must have been extremely pretty. She was certainly very feminine and determined to retain that quality; the dress and the bows gave evidence of that. She had light blue eyes that sparkled from her wrinkles with a kind of mischief, and a flat little nose like a kitten’s.

“I have only just arrived,” I explained. “I was trying to…”

“Look for Beau,” she finished. “I know you have only just arrived and I wanted to meet you. But you’d heard of Beau, of course. Everybody has heard of Beau.”

“I wonder whether you would be good enough to introduce yourself.”

“Of course, of course. How remiss of me.” She giggled. “I thought you might have heard of me…as you’d heard of Beau. I’m Miss Sybil Stacy—William’s sister, and I’ve lived in this house all my life so I’ve seen it all and I know exactly what it’s all about.”

“That must be very gratifying for you.”

She looked at me sharply. “You’re a widow,” she said. “So you’re a woman of experience. You were married to that famous man, weren’t you? And he died. That was sad. Death is sad. We have had deaths in this house…”

Her lips quivered and I thought she was going to weep. She brightened suddenly, as a child will. “But now Napier is back; he is married to Edith; there will be little children. Then it will begin to be better. The children will put everything right.” She looked up at the picture. “Perhaps Beau will go away then.”

Her face puckered.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” I said gently.

“The dead don’t always go, do they? Sometimes they decide to stay. They can’t tear themselves from those they’ve lived with. Sometimes it’s love that keeps them…sometimes it’s hate. Beau’s still here. He can’t rest, poor Beau. It was so lovely for him, you see. He had everything. He had beauty, charm, and he was brilliantly clever; he used to play the piano to make the tears run down your cheeks. Beau had everything. So he wouldn’t want to leave a life which was perfect would he?”

“Perhaps he found greater perfection.”

She shook her head and stamped her foot in a childish gesture. “It wasn’t possible,” she said angrily. “Beau couldn’t have been happier anywhere…neither on Earth nor in Heaven. Why did Beau have to die, do you think?”

“Because his time had come,” I suggested. “It happens so…now and then. Young people die.” Pietro, Roma, I thought. I felt my lips quiver.

“Oh, he was beautiful,” she said. She raised her eyes to the picture as though she were before some god. “That was him…to the life. That picture seems to speak to you. And I’ll never forget the day. The blood…the blood…”

Her face puckered, and I said: “Please don’t think of it. It must be very distressing even now.”

She came closer to me and all the sorrow had left her blue eyes; they sparkled with that mischief which was more alarming than her grief.

“They took his dying depositions. The doctor insisted. He said it was not Napier’s fault. They were playing with the guns…as boys will. ‘Hands up or I’ll fire!’ said Napier. And Beau replied: ‘I’ll get you first.’ At least that’s what Napier told us. But no one was there to see. They were in the gunroom. Then Beau reached for his gun and Napier fired his. Napier said they both thought the guns weren’t loaded. But you see they were.”

“What a terrible accident.”

“Nothing has ever been the same again.”

“But it was an accident.”

“You are a very sure person, Mrs.…Mrs.…”

“Verlaine.”

“I shall remember it. I never forget a name. I never forget a face. You are a very sure person, Mrs. Verlaine. And you have not been here a day yet. So you must be very sure indeed.”

“I can’t know anything, of course,” I said, “but I can quite see how two boys playing together could have an accident. It’s not the first time it’s happened.”

She whispered conspiratorially: “Napier was jealous of Beau. Everybody knew it. How could it have been otherwise? Beau was so handsome; he could do everything well. He used to challenge Napier in lots of ways.”

“Then he couldn’t have been so wonderful,” I said sharply and wondered why I wanted to protect Napier. It was the boy I was eager should have justice, not that arrogant man in the stables.

“Just in a boyish way. He was so boyish…And Napier, well he was quite different.”

“In what way?”

“Difficult. He’d go off on his own. He was always going off on his own. Wouldn’t practice the piano.”

“They have always been fond of music in this house?”

“Their mother played the piano beautifully. As well as you do. Oh yes, I heard you just now. I could have believed it was Isabella come back. Isabella could have been a very great pianist, I’ve heard it said. But she didn’t go on studying when she married. William didn’t wish it. He wanted her to play for him only. Can you understand that, Mrs. Verlaine?”

“No,” I said vehemently. “I think she should have been allowed to go on with her studies. If we have talent we should not hide it away.”

“The parable of the talents,” she cried, her eyes alight with pleasure. “It’s what Isabella thought too. She was…resentful.”

I felt a sympathy with Isabella. She had thrown away a career no doubt for marriage…somewhat as I had.

I felt those childish yet penetrating eyes on me.

Then she turned once more to the picture. “I’ll tell you a secret, Mrs. Verlaine. That is my work.”

“Then you’re an artist.”

She put her hands behind her back and nodded slowly.

“How interesting!”

“Oh yes. I painted that picture.”

“How long before he died did he sit for it?”

“Sit for it. He never would sit for anything. Imagine getting Beau to sit down! And why should I want him to? I knew him. I could see him clearly then…just as I see him now. I didn’t need him to sit, Mrs. Verlaine. I only paint the people I know.”

“It’s very clever of you.”

“Would you like to see some more of my pictures?”

“I’d be most interested.”

“Isabella was a clever musician, but she wasn’t the only clever one. Come to my rooms now. I have my own little suite. I’ve had it all my life. There was a time when I might have left here. I was going to be married…” Her face puckered and I thought she was going to burst into tears. “But I didn’t…and so I stayed here where I had been all my life. I had my home and my pictures…”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

She smiled. “Perhaps I’ll paint you one day, Mrs. Verlaine. It’ll be when I’ve learned to know you. Then I’ll see how I’ll paint you. Come with me now.”

I was fascinated by this strange little woman. She sprang round daintily and I saw her black satin slippers peeping out from beneath her blue skirt. There was mischief in her smile; as I have said she was like a high-spirited little girl and the manner coupled with that wrinkled face was intriguing and yet, I fancied, a little sinister. I wondered what I was going to see in her room, and if she really was responsible for the picture over the fireplace in Beau’s room.

Upstairs and through corridors we went. She looked over her shoulder at me and said: “Now, Mrs. Verlaine, you are lost, are you not?” in the manner of a teasing child.

I admitted I was but added that I supposed I should be able to find my way about in time.

“In time…” she whispered. “Perhaps. But time does not teach everything, does it? Time heals they say, but everything they say is not true, is it?”

I did not want to enter into a discussion at this point so I did not attempt to disagree with her; and smiling she walked on.

Eventually we came to what she called her suite. We were in one of the turrets and gleefully she showed me the apartment. There were three rooms in the great tower. “It’s a circle,” she pointed out—“you can go all round—one room leading to another and you come back to where you started from. Isn’t that unusual, Mrs. Verlaine? But I want to show you my studio. It faces north, you know. The light is so important to an artist. Come along in and I’ll show you some of my work.”

I went in. The windows were bigger in this room than in the others and the north light was strong. Her look of youth was harshly denied in this room; the little bows, the blue gown with its satin sash, the little black slippers, were not enough to combat the wrinkles, the brown smudges on the thin claw-like hands; but she had lost none of her animation. The room was simply furnished; there was a door at each end which I knew opened onto the next room; on the walls were several pictures and canvases were stacked up in a corner. On a table lay a pallet and an easel was set up; on this was a half-finished picture of three girls; and I knew at once that they were Edith, Allegra, and Alice. She followed my gaze.

“Ah,” she said conspiratorially. “Come and look.”

I went closer beside her. She was watching me eagerly for my reactions. I studied the picture; Edith with her golden hair; Allegra with her thick black curls and Alice neat with a white band holding back her long straight light-brown hair.

“You recognize them?”

“Of course. It’s a good likeness.”

“They’re young,” she said. “Their faces tell nothing, do they?”

“Youth…innocence…inexperience…”

“They tell nothing,” she said. “But if you know them you can see beneath the face they show the world. That is the artist’s gift, don’t you think? To see what they are trying to hide.”

“It makes the artist rather alarming.”

“A person to be avoided.” Her laughter was pitched and girlish. She was looking at me with those childlike eyes and I felt uneasy. Was she trying to probe my secrets? Was she seeing my stormy life with Pietro? Would she attempt to probe also into my motives? What if she discovered that I was Roma’s sister?

“It would all depend,” I said, “whether one had something to hide.”

“All people have something to hide don’t they, Mrs. Verlaine? It could be only one little thing…but it’s something so very much one’s own. Older people are more interesting than the young. Nature is an artist. Nature draws all sorts of things on people’s faces which they would prefer to hide.”

“Nature also draws the pleasanter things.”

“You’re an optimist, Mrs. Verlaine. I can see that. You’re like the young woman who came here…digging.”

My uneasiness increased. “Like…” I began.

She went on: “William didn’t want the place disturbed, but she was so persistent. She wouldn’t let him rest so he said yes. And they came down looking for Roman remains. It hasn’t been the same since.”

“You met this young woman?”

“Oh yes. I like to know what’s going on.”

“She would be the one who disappeared?”

She nodded delightedly, her eyes almost lost among the wrinkles.

“You know why?” she said.

“No.”

“Meddling. They didn’t like it.”

“Who didn’t?”

“Those who are dead and gone. They don’t go…altogether, you know. They come back.”

“You mean the…Romans?”

“The dead,” she said. “You can sense them all round you.” She came closer to me and whispered: “I don’t think Beau will like Napier’s coming back. In fact I know he doesn’t. He’s told me.”

“Beau…has told you!”

“In dreams. We were close…He was my little boy. The one I might have had. I’d pictured him…just like Beau. It was all right when Napier wasn’t here. It was right and proper that he should be sent away. Why should Beau be gone and Napier stay? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. But now he’s back and that’s bad, I tell you. Just a moment.” She went to the stack of canvases and brought out a picture. She set it against the wall and I gasped with horror. It was a full length picture of a man. The face was wicked…the hawknose was accentuated; the eyes were narrowed, the mouth was curved into a repulsive snarl. I recognized it as Napier.

“You recognize it?” she asked.

“It’s not really like him,” I said.

“I painted it after he’d murdered his brother.”

I felt indignant. For the boy, I told myself fiercely once more. She was watching my face and she laughed.

“I see you are going to take his side. You don’t know him. He’s wicked. He was jealous of his brother, of beautiful Beau. He wanted what Beau had…so he killed him. He’s like that. I know it. Others know it.”

“I am sure there are some who…”

She interrupted me. “How can you be sure, Mrs. Verlaine? What do you know? You think because William brought him back and married him to Edith…William is a hard man too, Mrs. Verlaine. The men of this house are all hard…except Beau. Beau was beautiful. Beau was good. And he had to die.” She turned away. “Forgive me. I feel it still. I shall never forget.”

“I understand.” I turned my back on that portrait of the young Napier. “It is very kind of you to show me your pictures. I was trying to find my way to my room. I think I may be wanted.”

She nodded. “I hope that one day you will see more of my pictures.”

“I should like to,” I said.

“Soon?” she pleaded like a child.

“If you will be so good as to invite me.”

She nodded happily and pulled a bell rope. A servant came and she asked the girl to conduct me to my apartments.

When I reached my room Alice was there.

She said: “I came to tell you that you will be having dinner with Mother and me tonight, and that I will come and take you to her rooms at seven o’clock.”

“Thank you,” I replied.

“You look startled. Was Sir William kind to you?”

“Yes. I played for him. I think he liked my playing. But I lost my way and met Miss Stacy.”

Alice smiled understandingly. “She is a little…strange. I trust she did not embarrass you.”

“She took me to her studio.”

Alice was surprised. “You must have aroused her interest. Did she show you her pictures?”

I nodded. “I saw one of you with Mrs. Stacy and Allegra.”

“Did you? She didn’t tell us she was painting us. Is it good?”

“It seems a perfect likeness.”

“I should like to see it.”

“She will surely show it to you.”

“She’s a little odd at times. It’s because she was crossed in love. By the way did you notice anything strange about our names, Mrs. Verlaine?”

“Your names?”

“The three of us…your pupils?”

“Alice, Edith, Allegra. Allegra is unusual.”

“Oh yes, but the three of us together. They come into a poem. I like poetry. Do you?”

“I like some,” I answered. “To which poem are you referring?”

“It’s by Mr. Longfellow. Shall I say the bit I like? I know it by heart.”

“Please do.”

She stood beside me, her arms folded behind her back, her eyes lowered as she quoted:

“From my study, I see in the lamplight.

Descending the broad hall stair

Grave Alice and laughing Allegra

And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper and then a silence;

Yet I know by their merry eyes

They are plotting and planning together

To take me by surprise.”

She lifted her eyes to my face and they were shining. She said: “You see, laughing Allegra, Edith with golden hair, and I am grave, am I not? You see it is us.”

“And you are planning to take someone by surprise?”

She smiled her quiet little smile.

Then she said with undoubted gravity: “I expect all of us surprise each other at some time, Mrs. Verlaine.”